IGS #4, Chapter 9

Scorio

When the sanguine sun finally began to rise, it did so swiftly. One moment it lay low in the sky, causing the air to swelter and roil, the desert to be bathed in crimson hues, and then it began to climb. It rose higher by the moment, the heat abating, and Scorio had trouble not simply standing there and watching as everyone finished their first bout of training and broke camp.

“It’s going up so quickly,” said Kelona, visoring her hand over her eyes. “I’ve never seen it move so fast.”

“Probably because we were watching it from so far away. It needs to rise really high if it’s to be seen all the way from the northern edge of the Band.”

There wasn’t much to pack. They ate a cold breakfast of cured meat, pungent cheese, and hard bread. Washed it all down with warm water, then prepared to fly south once more.

Scorio shifted into his draconic form, feeling expansive and mighty as always, and waited patiently for his passengers to clamber up. Nyrix tested the straps, and then clapped Scorio on his scaled shoulder, indicating that they were good to go.

As had become customary Jova didn’t wait for his downdraft to stir up the desert; she and Leonis rose swiftly and speared ahead.

With a great leap Scorio followed after, laboring for altitude at first, and then finally finding the currents of air that bore him aloft. Up he flew, and once at a comfortable height, followed Jova’s plinth toward the Unfathom.

His Heart was feeling worn this morning. Strange. It was an old, familiar sensation, but none one he’d felt in awhile. Came, no doubt, from having pushed himself so hard the day before. Scorio forced down the stab of frustration. Would he need to rest more often to avoid exhausting himself?

He’d grown spoiled by his humanoid draconic form, accustomed to constant flight. The massive might of his dragon form was clearly not meant for long journeys.

At least, not yet.

They reached the location where Scorio had nearly baked them all alive the night before. The ground was parched, desolate, and utterly without life. On they flew, the air arid and hot, the sun now directly overhead.

Scorio studied the desert, fascinated. The ground grew black, the rocks softened as if they’d melted like candles, and everywhere appeared lakes of glass amidst the nubs, their faces opaque and scratched.

The Cinder Fields.

It felt like flying through an oven. The heat was intense and delicious. But he fought for speed, aware that the others might not enjoy it as he did, and soon the cracked and scorched ground was left behind, the lakes of glass disappearing, and the brackish, metallic hues of the Telurian Band returning to the desert below.

What a wonder. Lianshi would have loved to see it.

It took but another hour before he noticed a smudge of darkness on the horizon. It couldn’t be another Cindered Plain, could it? The suns didn’t move north to south. But the sight was reason enough to call a rest. They descended, chatted idly as Scorio lay down and covered his eyes with his forearm, and for awhile he dozed. But all too soon he forced himself awake, rose and stretched, and insisted the renew their flight.

Kelona tried to insist they could train some more, that he should keep resting, but he was too impatient to listen. They resumed their journey south, and slowly that distant smudge swept out to encompass the entire horizon. Another Rain Wall? The sky ahead grew dark and misty. But no: as he glided on, occasionally beating his wings to add propulsion, he realized it wasn’t a wall of any kind, but a dimming of the light.

Slowly, inexorably, the distant gloom grew more distinct, the metallic brashness of the Telurian Band fading to melancholic greys and slate blues, dirty white and hints of black. The sky itself seemed immune to the Band’s brazen sun. Beyond lay a land of shifting mists, it seemed, of uncertainties and vague shapes.

The others crowded about his shoulders, and he could hear their excited conversation intermittently over the rushing wind. Kelona’s voice was brightest, Xandera a higher pitched accompaniment, Nyrix’s voice too soft to be discerned.

Amusement and excitement filled his own heart.

The Silver Unfathom.

At long last.

And there, placed directly at the base of that rising tenebrous murk, startlingly vivid and stark in its construction, was a bright crimson fortress. So blood-like was its coloration that it seemed to glow, all of it painted the same virulent hue.

Kelona cried out so that he could hear, “The first waystation!”

Scorio angled his wings gratefully so that they began to descend toward it in a great swooping curve, his head tracking the building as Jova dropped toward it directly, trying to discern what he could of it before they drew too close.

It looked… incomplete. It was carved from a single huge block of stone, deceptively large, its top ragged as if construction had been abandoned. The waystation was windowless, stark, inhuman in its scale.

“It’s big!” Kelona cried out, clearly surprised, and as Scorio flew closer, he saw that its simplicity had caused him to underestimate it. That, and its vividly black entrance arch was huge, tall enough for him to enter in dragon form, but probably too narrow.

A figure leaped into the air, emerging from a shadowed cleft in the rough rooftop, and flew toward them. For a fleeting moment Scorio thought it a Great Soul, but no; though they wore pale blue robes that billowed out over a confusion of layered dark blue skirts, with a red sash tied around their waist, something felt truly alien about the figure. The creature’s skin was a pearlescent silver, with twin ram horns curling down from their temples and about their jaw, and their eyes were overlarge and jet black. It was bald, with red arm wraps, and flew up to meet him like an eel swimming through water, arms by their side, body undulating with ease as they coursed up.

“A Silverine!” Xandera exclaimed excitedly.

Jova slowed her descent and floated out wide, eyes narrowed.

Scorio banked into a slow glide, allowing the fiend to approach. As it drew closer he saw that its face was abstracted, with a tiny mouth and an equally small nub of a nose from which ridges swept up and over its striking eyes to become brows. No ears, no hair.

Alien, but strangely, eerily compelling.

“Greetings!” Its voice was musical and carried easily across the distance as it slowed to a hover, skirts floating out around it so that their lower half appeared almost a hemisphere of rippling cloth. “Be welcome to the first Crimson Keepling, this miniature outpost of Great Soul permanence! I am as of now Sybelleo, a Silverine Philosopher and hopeful adjunct to any who demonstrate impressive largesse!”

Scorio couldn’t hover without greatly exerting himself, so he tightened his curve, raising his left wing as he dipped his right to fly slowly in a great circle around Sybelleo, who turned in place to keep track of him. “Greetings,” he roared back, and then inwardly grimaced. He’d yet to master the subtleties of shouting while in this form. “We’re from LastRock, and make for the Red Keep.” Almost he asked if they could land, but instinct stopped him. Was this Sybelleo the owner of the first waystation? Probably not.

“Be welcome to the Silver Unfathom! Its multiplicities await you, its joys tremble in anticipation! You are in need of a guide, a companion, one well versed in all the ways of this tract of Acherzua, and I humbly offer myself as such! With me at your side, you shall journey through the mists in confidence, avoiding all snares and entrapments. Shall we forge an unbreakable union at once?”

The Silverine’s alien visage was unreadable, and its voice conveyed only anticipation and heartfelt sincerity.

And yet.

“My thanks, Sybelleo, but we’ll land first before making any commitments.” And Scorio slid into a dive, coursing down toward the waystation and leaving the fiend above.

“But of course!” The fiend’s rich voice was so complex and musical that Scorio had trouble teasing out the meaning of its words. “A most wise decision!”

The waystation rose to meet them. The crimson wasn’t just daubed on the walls, but seemed rather to have been poured onto the building from above, for not only was every crack and crevasse richly filled with red, but the rocks around the waystation’s base and immediately before its entrance were similarly drenched.

Interesting.

Scorio alighted before the towering archway. It had to be twenty feet tall, six wide, and made the unnerving building even more disconcerting.

Kelona, Nyrix, and Xandera leaped down as Jova landed her plinth a dozen yards away. The ground here on the edge of the Unfathom was bleached of color and reduced to a pale, mineral whiteness. Other rocky outcroppings beyond the waystation loomed out of a growing fog that only thickened to the south, and Scorio glanced back toward the Band to see its metallic hues begin abruptly some several hundred yards to the north.

And ah. The first and faintest hints of Silver mana.

He raised his head high upon his long neck and cast forth his senses excitedly. Yes. There, akin in many ways to energetic Copper, but more noble, more dignified, somehow, as it rippled through the air.

But so little. Here and there he could see small shoals of gleaming Silver threads, finger-thick but little more. Bronze, yes, Iron flowing along the floor, Copper high overhead, but Silver proper? Almost none.

Sybelleo landed lightly to one side as other figures began to emerge from the great archway. A half-dozen Silverines and two Great Souls. Sybelleo cast a worried glance at his approaching brethren, and stepped closer.

“Remember, coincidences are often fateful synchronicities disguised as happenstance! That we met first is of significance, and we would be wise to respect the will of Acherzua in orchestrating it as such!”

Scorio released his draconic form, shrinking down swiftly to his human one. It was still shocking, in a weird way, to experience after hours of flight; one moment his very sense of self occupied a tremendous amount of space, was expressed by tail lashings and a deeply powerful and primordial physicality, and then he was… much reduced. Gone was that strength, that speed, that obdurate armor and toughness. He felt soft and defenseless, limited in range, his neck cramped to little more than inches, his body stiffly upright and no longer in need of a tail for counterbalancing.

But Scorio pushed away the strangeness of being human to focus on those approaching.

A welcoming committee, with the blocky crimson keep rising high behind them.

The Silverines were immediately identifiable, all of them in some manner abstractions of the human form, approximations infused with whimsy and elegance. Some wore complete sets of robes like Sybelleo, while others displayed their fiendish forms more openly, with only a diaphanous white cloak wrapped around their shoulders, or an array of ivory feathers artfully framing their faces.

All, however, were striking, with some approximating beautiful human figures. One individual, bare chested, displayed a sculpted male torso of exquisite proportions, perfectly muscled, while another was starkly sensual, the sheer robes of a courtesan revealing her shoulders, elegant clavicles, and plunging neckline.

But their faces.

There was no confusing them for human. One was smooth and completely without features but for twin feline eyes, each a slit opened in marble, while another wore the mask of a child, its porcelain features dusted with black and streaked with dashes of bronze and iron that extended behind its head like leaves. Another resembled nothing so much as a hawk, its nose a hooked beak, its eyes burning small and blue in the recesses beneath its brow, while another had huge, disconcertingly round black eyes like goggles implanted in its face.

“Sybelleo, scoundrel and farce that you are, you cut the line!” protested the hawk-Silverine, its voice as musical as the fiend he accused, if perhaps deeper and more resonant.

“Ignore these others,” protested another, stiff-arming her way to the fore. “They are but intemperate children, clamoring for a seat at the table. Through me lies the path to wisdom, through me the path to everlasting joy.”

The Silverine with the torso of a glorious young man leaped into the air where he hovered, arms extended outward, his blank face cracking to reveal a horizontal mouth where none had been before. “Wisdom is for those who seize it! Seize the moment, kind strangers, and let me be your guide into a malleable world of pleasure and knowledge!”

Xandera was staring, open-mouthed, while Nyrix had drawn himself up, arms crossed. Jova and Leonis were approaching, clearly wary, while Kelona edged closer to Scorio. Beyond this bristling crowd stood the two Great Souls, one of whom was shaking his heads wryly, a single Silverine clad in robes as blood-red as the fort by his side.

“All right, all right, you’ll get your chance to pester the hell out of ‘em in a moment, ease off,” barked the elder of the two men. He clapped his hands and strode forward, causing the Silverines to break apart and back away, their manner bird-like and clearly frustrated. “We had an agreement, didn’t we, on how you’d be welcoming strangers? And this sure ain’t it. You’re mad to be pestering a man who can turn himself into a bloody dragon.”

The man was gaunt, his nose large, his features weathered, his blonde hair so thin and shorn so close to the scalp that it was more an idea of hair than anything else. His cheeks were sunken, his ears overlarge, and there was something of the rat to his features, or the weasel. His eyes were a watery blue rimmed in red, and yet his stern brows accentuated his brusque manner.

“Flame Vault Vill, at your service,” he said, voice rich with irony. “At least so far as I can get a word in, edgewise, from all these clamorin’ fiends.”

“Pyre Lord Scorio.” And he extended his Heart-sense to Vill, attempting to gauge the other. For a moment he caught a sense of density, of moderate power, and then it was gone.

“Scorio, ey?” Vill rubbed at his chin as he scrutinized him right back. “The fellow who killed Chancellor Praximar, back at the ol’ Academy?”

“That’s right,” allowed Scorio. “I guess news travels fast.”

“Nah, we’re inveterate gossips, Aken and me, seeing as we’re stationed here with precious little else to do.” Vill grinned toothily. “All manner of folks have been coming through, heading back to their original postings, and bringing all manner of rumors and news with them. You’re a Pyre Lord, is it? Last fellow said you was a Dread Blaze. No matter. But well done! Never did like Praximar. What a stuck up popinjay he was.”

Scorio glanced to the other Great Soul, a younger man who startled at being caught staring at Scorio. He recovered quickly, however, and stepped forward to extend his hand. “Flame Vault Aken. Welcome to the first waystation.”

Where Aken was cadaverous, Aken was athletic, his shoulders as broad as his waist was trim. His nose was kinked like Nyrix’s, and his caramel-colored hair was a tousled crown above his striking features. But his skin had a light waxen sheen, just like Vill’s, and his eyes were hollowed under his brows.

“Thanks. My companions,” said Scorio, half-turning, and the others promptly introduced themselves.

The young blazeborn spoke last, but her gaze had gone back to the Silverines who were edging back in, half their number having risen into the air so as to peer over those in front. “I’m Xandera Sextus. You are fascinating! Yet so servile. What do you want, offering yourselves so eagerly in this way?”

Half the Silverines began to speak at once, but Vill stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, silencing them. “What they want is one and the same,” he said. “Come on inside I’ll explain it to ya. I know, I know, you’re headed for the Red Keep proper, but be kind, spend a minute with us, tell us what’s going on in the upper reaches of Hell. We’ll wine and dine you in exchange.”

“We’re tasked with orienting new travelers,” said Aken, tone stilted as he glanced at Vill. “You’ll need pointers to navigate the Unfathom.”

“Informally tasked,” laughed Vill, leading them through the crowd of Silverines. “Self-appointed more like, and tolerated by one and all despite our, well, degenerate ways. Come on. You’re safe enough with this raggedy lot.”

Scorio glanced at his companions then shrugged. Jova looked eminently displeased. Xandera had already moved forward, and attracted three Silverines who’d drawn close about her, bending down to peer at her hair, her garments, all aspects of her.

“Weird,” laughed Kelona. “Not… not what I was expecting.”

“More information would be good,” agreed Nyrix. “Right, Scorio?”

“Sure. Let’s bring the packs with us.”

They approached the crimson waystation. The single solitary Silverine who’d not come clamoring walked alongside Vill and Aken, and her gorgeous crimson cloak draped over her voluptuous form. She, thought Scorio, though the fiend moved without any sway to her hips. There was a dignity to her, a self-possession, that the others lacked; that, and her form was the most human, but for two great sweeps of ivory extending back from her brows almost a foot in length. Not horns, but almost decorative wings, or elongated ears.

“Listen up, all of you!” shouted Vill as he mounted the half-dozen red steps that led into the keep. “You’ll stay out for this one. No coming inside, you hear?”

The Silverines cried out in dismay, their musical flutings melding into an eerily harmonious sound, and three flew overhead onto the roof.

“Remember the first!” called Sybelleo, pitching its voice to carry over the harmonic protest. “The symbolism is rife!”

Scorio, Leonis, and Nyrix dropped their large packs just inside the high archway and followed their hosts into the gloom. A large stone hall extended down the length of the keep, complete with a central stone table down its center with benches alongside. The walls were stark and unadorned, though not painted red like the exterior. A great iron chandelier shaped like a cartwheel hung from the ceiling, and bulbs of glowing mana-lights exuded both warmth and a warm candlelight glow upon the hall, softening angles and raising the temperature.

A grand chair was set at the head of the table. Dirty dishes and cups were clustered at that end, as if only that portion was ever used, and behind it rose a steep staircase, disappearing through a rectangular hole to what had to be the second story.

“Welcome to the waystation!” boomed Vill, extending his arms as he turned to walk backward alongside the table to the occupied end. “Be seated, go on. We’ll bring out something good to eat. Aken, we still got those dawn apples? Here.” He took up a large jug. “Copperfire wine, traded with me by a man seeking to quit drinking. More fool him!”

The sole Silverine fiend in her red robes moved to the back of the hall and there stood, watching. Her features were feminine, with red slashes rising from her cheeks to cut over her burning red eyes and wrap over the top of her skull, as vivid as the hue of the keep outside.

Scorio nodded toward her as he sat. “You’ve not introduced your friend.”

“I shall introduce myself,” she replied, but what a voice. It was smooth and assured, but so overlaid with complex harmonies that it took active focus to understand what she said. “I am Pashamylo, Silverine Philosopher, and friend of Vill.”

Who grinned as he set about filling cups. “A dear friend indeed. Come on, sit. Surely you’ve got news? Scorio! I can’t believe I’m hosting the man himself. I’ve heard the wildest tales. Is it true you helped the Imperators kill the Blood Ox?”

Uneasy, Scorio glanced at Jova, but Kelona leaned forward with a grin. “It’s true! I wasn’t there, but he held the Ox out in the open till the Imperators could show. Without him, the war’d be lost.”

Aken had disappeared through a door, and now returned with a hempen sack that he upended into a basket. Old dawn apples tumbled forth, and he placed the basket in the center of the table. “I thought it… an exaggeration.”

“Mostly an exaggeration,” agreed Scorio. The sight of the apples brought back memories of Bastion, of a vendor’s cart and the words of a kind stranger: One day I’m sure you’ll be in a position to help another. You are not your circumstances. His mood softened, and he plucked one to turn it about in his hand. Within its flesh he could sense the flickerings of tiny specks of Gold.

“Remarkable,” grinned Vill, taking a mighty bite out of an apple. Not caring that his mouth was full, he continued, “go on then, tell us what happened. It’s rare we get to hear news from the mouth of the horse himself.”

“Horse?” asked Xandera in confusion.

“I’ll keep it short,” said Scorio, and recounted what had taken place with as little detail as he could, minimizing his own role and the private particulars.

Aken and Vill drank it in, their amazement growing, and when Scorio was done Vill smacked his knee and beamed at Aken. “You hear that? We’re living through amazing times, Aken! I almost reckon we should be out there ourselves!”

Aken blushed and looked down at the table.

“Impressive,” said Pashamylo, her tone soft. Her eyes burned like coals in a fire as she studied Scorio from across the hall. “You are an impressive Great Soul, Pyre Lord Scorio.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Scorio took a bite of his apple. Some of its spark was still there, but it was clearly an old sample.

Jova leaned forward. “So. You two. What’s going on here? What’s with that welcome committee outside?”

“Ah, now we get to it.” Vill chuckled and shook his head. “The Silver Unfathom’s a grand place for those with the wits to benefit. All of them out there? They want your mana. No denying it. Even Pashamylo here craves nothing else. Oh, they’ll have you think they like you for your looks, your personality, but I’m the living proof of those lies. Ain’t that right, Pasha? You don’t care that I look like a cancerous weasel, do you?”

Pashamylo simply canted her head to one side.

“But you’ve got to be canny in who you pick,” continued Vill. “That lot outside are all baby Philosophers. They’re as green as Emberlings freshly from their first Trial. And worth as much, if you ask me. Nah. What you’ll want to do is hold out for a more advanced Philosopher like our Pasha here.”

Something about their hosts, about the waystation itself, was keeping Scorio on edge. They’d not be staying here long, he reckoned. “Baby Philosophers. I don’t understand. Part of their life cycle?”

“You got it,” grinned Vill, leaning back against the table. “Most of that rabble outside were little more than Instinctuals a season ago. Instinctuals? You know the term? Nah, I guess you don’t. Beasts. Out there eating everything that moves. Fighting like pigs in a sty for enough mana to evolve into Philosophers.”

“Is that’s what pigs do?” asked Nyrix softly.

Vill’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the Dread Blaze.

“Why are they worthless?” asked Kelona. “They seemed intelligent enough to me?”

It was Aken who responded. “The leap from Instinctual to Philosopher is a big one, but the difference between a newly evolved Philosopher and one about to become an Abstraction is just as wide.” He glanced at Kelona and immediately looked away again. “Those outside… they lack depth, maturity. They share our language amongst themselves, adapting to it quickly, but they’re like children. Or… or like Instinctuals, clothed in the bodies of Philosophers. You can’t trust them.”

“This is incredible,” said Leonis, tone idle. “The more you explain, the less I understand. Why can’t we trust them? You said they just want mana.”

Vill grinned again, showing his yellowed teeth. “They want mana, but aren’t too particular about how they go about getting it. It’d be nice and all if you gave it to them willingly, but if they catch you alone, and there are enough of ‘em, and they think they can get away with it…”

“The Twilight Lady puts up with this kind of behavior?” asked Jova, tone flinty. Scorio didn’t need to have known her for years to sense the sheer violence of her disdain for Vill. “Allows packs of them to infest her waystations and ambush solitary Great Souls?”

“Well…” temporized Vill, glancing at Aken as if for support. “You gotta understand that things are different out here, Miss Jova ma’am. The Duchess don’t exactly rule over the Unfathom. Far from it. She puts a foot wrong, and the Silverines will wash over the Red Road and every waystation like a flood, wiping us out of existence like this.” And he snapped his fingers.

“They’re that powerful?” asked Scorio, looking past Vill to where Pashamylo stood, inscrutable in the hall’s far gloom. “Why haven’t I heard about them, then? Everyone just goes on and on about the Viridian Heart or the Blood Ox.”

“Pah, the Blood Ox,” sniffed Vill dismissively. “You notice how many Silver-ranked fiends were in his mighty entourage? You see any Silverines?”

“That,” said Jova, tone wry, “and maybe you haven’t heard about them because you weren’t in class much, Scorio.”

Which, weirdly enough, warmed Scorio—he smirked at Jova, pleased—or reassured?—that someone who knew his past was there with him.

“I was part of some war councils that discussed the Silverines,” continued Jova, her tone guarded. “Suffice to say the Blood Barons and higher are aware that they’re a problem, but don’t have the resources to deal with it.”

“What problem, exactly?” Kelona looked bewildered. “I thought there was an agreement in place, with the Red Keep and the Red Road?”

“Things change, sweet cakes,” said Vill. “The Silverines been growing in number. Always growing. Growing and growing and growing. Always hungry, aren’t you, dear?” And at this he turned back to half-grin, half-sneer at Pashamylo, who inclined her head. “They’re like a horde of termites. Consuming everything. It ain’t as safe on the Red Road as it used to be. Especially up north here, where the Silver mana’s thickest. We’ve heard that that Instinctuals are roaming in packs thousands strong. They scent something on the Road, well. They don’t give a rat’s ass for Lady Krula’s Dominion.”

“But doesn’t her Dominion keep the road safe?” asked Nyrix, mystified.

“As a matter of fact, lad, her Dominion keeps the Road from slipping around like a bar of soap into all the strange versions of the Unfathom that are out there.” Vill grinned, showing his yellowed teeth. “But if she senses a fight break out on the Road, hundreds of miles from the Red Keep, you think she’s going to drop everything and come take a look?”

“The White Queen would have,” said Scorio softly.

“Yeah, but the White Queen’s long gone, ain’t she?” Vill’s eyes glittered. “And our Twilight Duchess, she’s a mite more practical about these things. So mind my warning: don’t dilly dally. You ain’t seen nothing till you’ve seen a proper Instinctual swarm. And once they get your scent, they don’t give up. Ever.”

“Well.” Scorio’s tone was dry. “Luckily for us we can fly.”

“Some of ‘em can fly, too. Not just the Philosophers. You get Instinctuals of all shapes and sizes. A right wonder, they are, endlessly hungry. You’ll see. Try and find any other kind of fiend in the Unfathom. Gone. All gone. Eaten up. Tossed into the ever-hungry furnace that is the Silverine’s appetite for mana.”

“Wait,” said Scorio. “They’ve eaten everything?”

“Near enough,” sniffed Vill. “I reckon we’re still here because they know Imperators will show up and wreck their business if they mess with us too much. But everything else? Gone. Even the plants, those weird singing trees, the intelligent mushroom things. I heard about a carpet of colors a mile wide, used to crawl over everything. Gone. Oh, you’ve no idea what you’re getting into. Your best bet is to make for the Lustrous Maria as quick as you can. Get the hell out of here and don’t look back.”

Leonis’ smile was dour. “Yet here you are, the both of you. Something doesn’t add up.”

“Oh, it adds up, all right.” Vill met the bigger man’s stare full on. “We’ve found a way to survive, ain’t we Aken? A way to dance with the Silverines. We give them what they want, and they give us… well.” His grin was nasty.

Scorio dropped the dawn apple core into the closest bowl and rose at the same time as Jova. “Thanks for the hospitality. I think we’ll be taking your advice and moving on.”

“So soon?” Vill genuinely seemed surprised. “But there’s so much more we can tell you. In exchange for more gossip from the north. C’mon, sit, sit! Unlike everything else out there, I promise we don’t bite!”

“I think not,” said Jova.

Their other companions also rose to their feet, some more confused than others.

Scorio cast one final look about the squalid hall, the trash that had accumulated against the walls, the filthy plates and bowls, the haggard and drawn features of their hosts, and then back to where Pashamylo yet stood, inscrutable, observant, and in her silence somehow… masterful.

For a long, aching moment he just met her burning gaze, and then he inclined his head, moved to the archway where he took up one pack, and strode out into the pale, misty light.

“Pyre Lord!” The Silverine with the hawk-face pushed off the wall where he’d been waiting and approached. “The mists are best parted -”

The Silverine with the perfectly sculpted male torso and blank head approached from the other side, “Perfection is an ideal often sought after, but it is the very pursuit, if guided by a steady hand, that -”

Scorio set the pack down and strode ahead. Kelona went to follow, but Nyrix caught her by the shoulder and drew her back.

A moment later Scorio Ignited his Heart, burning Copper and Bronze as he rose into his draconic form. The Silverines who had floated down from the keep’s roof let out an appreciative sigh and began to fly around him in a circle as he turned back to his companions.

Jova’s plinth rose silently from the drift of white sand and flew slowly to where she stood at the base of the steps.

“Why are we leaving?” asked Xandera. “Don’t we need a guide?”

“Up,” said Nyrix, lashing the packs together and then hauling them onto Scorio’s back. “We’ll explain it soon.”

Everyone climbed atop Scorio, their weight already grown familiar. The Silverines continued to call out offers, but he ignored them and leaped into the sky, his mighty wingbeats causing pale sand to blast everywhere in huge curls.

The Silverines began to follow, but Scorio had had enough. Turning his head to look back, he concentrated his will.

LEAVE US ALONE.

His mental command reverberated through the air, and the fiends fell back, several of them dropping momentarily as if forgetting how to fly before catching themselves and flitting down to the waystation.

With powerful, steady beats, he rose higher into the air, Jova streaming ahead closer to the ground, the thickening fog growing chill as they left the waystation behind. Below, a thin red road led from the base of the waystation deeper into the Unfathom, a slender thread that picked its away around outcroppings and speared ever south.

Keeping an eye out for movement, he focused on following it.

But soon he sensed another presence following them from behind.

A quick glance.

A Silverine.

Sybelleo, with their skirts flaring out behind them as they sought to catch up.

“Hold on,” Scorio called back. “Looks like we’re not done with them yet.”